


did you notice, we sleep through the night

by hannahnyrie



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Ballroom Scene, F/F, Villaneve, it's about the ache, it's about the yearning, new dynamic, no mention of rhian in the ballroom because i don't care, train station platform aftermath, very soft very sweet i need to go to the dentist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:20:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24444226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahnyrie/pseuds/hannahnyrie
Summary: Villanelle cries in front of her, now, and Eve agrees to a pact, deep within herself. It will never be a work of her hands, this woman’s pain, ever again. She stands.“Don’t apologize. Please dance with me.”{Post 3x07}
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 18
Kudos: 194





	did you notice, we sleep through the night

_ “You’re always expecting the end, aren’t you?” _

_ “Yes, but I’m sure of it.” _

_ “Nothing comes to an end in this world.” _

_ “But here it will be the end. When you call me, I’ll come.” _

_ “I’m so mean and wicked...that I shouldn’t be surprised if I really did call you ‘at the very end,’ as you say, and you’ll come in spite of your sanity. Why are you ruining yourself?” _

_ “I know that at the end I shall remain alone with you and - I’m waiting for that.” _

_ “But what if I do not call for you at the end? What if I run away from you?” _

_ “That will never happen. You will call for me.” _

  * Fyodor Dostoyevsky, _The Devils_ (1872)



  
  


The train winds away from the platform, leaving the small segment of London bustle in its wake. Turning the corner, the walls blending into one unified semblance of black, the long stretch of windows is rendered unreal and pointless. Maybe there’s smoke, somewhere beneath the rails, maybe there’s something kindling life; maybe rapid transit can explode, break apart, and find its own ending, the passengers condemned only to watch the blinding conclusion. Sometimes, it feels like there is too much life, everywhere. 

Villanelle leans her head against the window, the chill of the glass. She watches black bricks whip by her vision as they seem to cluster atop each other, only to become part of the wall’s neverending monotony. It’s funny, how even vision seems to long for authenticity; some blistering hope of a brick unlike all the rest. Once found, though, it would just fall away from the whole, taunted by the angry thrill of the train, landing somewhere amongst the tracks, helpless to be skewed and crushed - only a memory of uniqueness. 

The question rings loudly, always: “Is it just normality, that everyone wants?”

Villanelle remembers someone telling her, once, that even normality houses a certain neuroticism, that there is no possibility of stitching together one’s veil of existence without some switch flipped the wrong way, an inconsistent thread of a different color, somewhere mixed in. The thought is reassuring (and maybe a little scary) that life may just be madness, absurdity. 

It is,  _ of course _ it is. Yet, there remains always the possibility of a gentle ripple slicing through angry waves - a small moment of grace, that can calm a stretch of ocean over and over again, whenever it chooses to. 

Lifting her head away from the wintery glass, readjusting herself on the seat, Villanelle feels lost in that sort of foggy euphoria possessed by an ocean at peace. Loose waves rise and lap in the forefront of her mind, because the memory of Eve is suddenly not so distant. Their meeting on the bus sang a rattled lullaby to the sea, and placed a gentle kiss against it, as if gifted from a surrendering sun. Their meeting five minutes ago - between the glass, in motion, hands raised not in malice but in soft greeting - must revive the lost city of Atlantis; not as ruins but as bare, fluttering life. 

And  _ god _ , she needs something soothed within her, needs to lose some of this ache, if only for a moment. The excruciating memory of her mother bleeds hot and austere down to her very depths; the unflinching finality of the Twelve’s chains feel wrapped around her ribs; and Konstantin...well, he could be gone. 

A heart attack, right on the platform. She remembers telling him, not long ago, that he didn’t have to be so dramatic. Then he let it all bubble up and win over him anyway, expelling it out via a panic-stricken monologue, clumsily. At first, she thought he was joking (a sick joke, that would have been horribly ill-timed) but a joke nonetheless. But eyes threatened with death don’t lie, and then he was prone on the ground, and she couldn’t find his money, and she had to get on the damn train. 

So she leaves him there, because she’s left people before. If he dies, the ache of it will settle deeply in her bones, but it will only join the boundless pool of hurt that comprises most of her body. The manifestation of pain throbs within her, reminds her of endings - abrupt endings marred with the shock of sudden death, rather than smooth conclusions gently crafted with intention over time. It would be nice, she thinks, to experience a conclusion. A steadying force to lull her to sleep, night after night. 

She feels the soft, sullen winds of the train’s interior sweep against her and realizes it is rather empty. Rows of empty seats, invisible people, going nowhere. Villanelle briefly wonders why she has to travel around in a body, why she has to be  _ known _ . It’s a doomed fate, but it’s very common. After Rome, she sometimes allowed herself to imagine Eve as a ghost, and found herself jealous of that unearthly freedom. Did she grant Eve something, by killing her? That wasn’t her intention.

Eve wouldn’t take her love, so she took the neutral passion of a bullet instead. It had the potential to be a conclusion - death wrapped up in a neat bow - but Villanelle imagined there to be some level of catharsis in such a conclusion. She hadn’t known a moment of genuine peace since. 

And then, Eve lived. She negated Villanelle’s impassioned reaction, she rejected the finality that a bullet usually represents. 

_ She’s still here. _

Somewhere along the way, somewhere in this obscene symphony of love and death and life and pain, Eve cast her eyes on the same sky as Villanelle. She saw the same stars, the same black expanse resembling a void but what is really just endless open space, and she must have sighed. 

Villanelle sighs too, lately. She sighs imperceptibly at the fading sight of Eve on the platform with her hand raised, her mouth slightly agape, her pupils lost somewhere in between the lines of  _ oh, you’re real _ , and  _ oh, you’re leaving me again _ . Villanelle wishes the train would just stop, or the world itself;  _ something _ should just stop. She’s sick of this constant movement, the neverending fluctuation of which nothing seems safe from. The sigh always escaping her lips is full of ache, but at least it is constant. 

Buses and trains don’t stop moving but you can choose to get off. She glances at her phone, at the train ticket in her other hand. She thinks of being found,  _ always _ being found by this same person, even postmortem, six months later. She wonders why she keeps searching relentlessly for life in all these dusty corners (marriage, her family, the Twelve, Cuba) when the real source has been following her all along, and is  _ still _ following her. Right up to the tracks.

She leans against the window and opens her phone. 

-

It must be relief, this feeling. There’s a certain warmth to it - a little chaos too - but it’s calm. Eve stands there, watching the train whip past, and she is calm. 

The platform beneath her feet serves as a stabilizing presence. She grounds herself, allows herself the knowledge that Villanelle was just here and now she is gone. The train’s brisk wind lifts Eve’s hair up and down, her curls having no hope of settling until the movement ceases. 

She looks over to Konstantin, who is now sitting up, surrounded by worried people. His back is being supported by a woman who is also tilting a water bottle up to his mouth, and there is a man holding a phone up to him, presumably with an emergency operator on speaker. 

For a moment, she tries to make eye contact with him, to reassure him that not  _ everyone _ took off. The moment passes though, and he seems caught up in trying to regain breath, and Eve decides to just leave it be.

She awkwardly slides her hands into her coat pockets, grips the inner material for support, to remind herself of reality, and begins walking down the platform. It isn’t dizziness she feels, it’s something more akin to what she felt months ago, when that weirdly comforting psychologist Carolyn hired had asked her how she was feeling. Being wide awake made her vulnerable, and placed her completely at the mercy of something stronger than herself. It was easy to feel things in that state, to let herself be bogged down in the throes of harsh emotion. To be trapped within it...but,  _ no _ ...she was never trapped. It’s all about choices, and Rome was her choice. 

She chose to involve Villanelle in the Peele case, she chose to check into that hotel with Hugo, she chose to listen to Villanelle’s balmy voice all night, she chose to drop everything to save Villanelle, and she chose to entertain the idea of escaping to Alaska with her. She felt so instantly warm, listening to the proposal. Villanelle’s smooth voice suggesting they get a cabin, that money would not be an object. The way she was looking at her: untarnished happiness blooming upon her face, beaming at Eve while murmuring, “It’s going to be amazing.” It hushed any trace of forlorn anger or hesitation in Eve; it allowed more room for sweet affection to flood through her. 

She had looked at the woman before her, breathing her in. Following her into the inner ruins, watching the heeled feet take careful steps, Eve almost let herself smile. Then a bird, a small pistol, and that undeniable, ugly feeling of betrayal, seeping into the innocent river of affection, muddying the waters. Anger and love spinning in Eve’s mind; she heard Villanelle desperately cry the latter and herself bluntly state the former. Then a lapse of darkness; she doesn’t remember being shot. 

Eve still has life, and she can’t decide if it is a miracle or not. She keeps walking. 

It would have been wrong, for it to end in Rome. She isn’t only referring to her life, when the thought comes to her. This is a realization Eve hates to arrive at, but she’s there. She’s been there for months. The natural progression of this thought leads her to another question: would it be wrong, for it to  _ ever _ end? She’s brushing past people along the platform, nursing and petting this thought, when her phone rings. 

Not recognizing the number, she raises the phone to her ear anyway. Her reverie continues for the first few blank moments of empty noise after she says, “Hello?” 

“We have to stop running into each other like that.” 

A pause. It’s sudden, almost instantaneous, but Eve is anchored to the moment. 

“It’s not good for both of us.” 

She swallows and feels the space around her widening, threatening to break out of the building. The atmosphere becomes dense, but it’s clear, and she finds she can breathe easily.

“Villanelle.”

“Eve. Konstantin - is he?” Eve feels an odd flutter beneath her chest, noting Villanelle’s immediate concern.

“He’s okay, he’s okay. He’s sitting up, people are getting help for him.” A sigh translates itself through the phone. Eve pulls her free hand out of her pocket, lets it dangle calmly at her side. 

“Good, that’s good,” Villanelle continues slowly, “Eve, you’ll meet me, yes?”

While hesitation is usually involuntary, Eve chooses not to give into it, for once.

“Yes. Where?” There’s a slight skip of breath on the other end.

“I will text you the address.” Villanelle’s voice falters away. There’s something different about her, Eve notices. It’s the same slight alteration which had marked Villanelle’s blurred face through the window, minutes before. 

Whatever it is, Eve finds herself wanting to cradle it. 

“Villanelle, be safe.” She says, equal parts caution and care.

“You too, Eve. I’ll be seeing you.” A short pause, housing an endless array of small infinities, and the call clicks off. Lowering the phone from her ear, the surrounding bustle dials back up to its full intensity and the world reenters Eve. With something akin to a chill, Eve feels herself missing the voice. She hurries towards an exit. 

-

It’s a swirling night; wind rises and dances through the trees while the sky seems bent on an angle, indicating rain. There’s warmth in the air though, and it sweeps over Eve as she turns another corner, her eyes fixed intently on her phone, following the small map. She’s never been in this part of London. There are young couples walking around everywhere, arm-in-arm, dressed in what looks to be rather expensive clothing. They appear expensive in another way, though: they walk with an undeniable air of completion, an invisible price tag bearing the words  _ we found each other, and now we walk through the night together _ , dangling off their coats. Eve carries on at a quicker pace. 

She’s led to a beautiful building; radiant and majestic in its scope and colors. There’s a small line gathering at the roped-off entrance - men and women dressed in clothing that is surprisingly not very lavish, but rather comfortable, allowing for movement.  _ Oh _ . It’s a dance club, a proper dance club. A shiver runs through Eve as she straightens her coat, breathes deeply, and approaches the entrance. 

She isn’t waiting long, before she’s let in. If possible, the club’s exterior is dwarfed by its interior: all warm lighting, pinks and subdued reds, candles on the walls and tables. Drinking it all in, Eve finds herself walking still, her body in charge. Weaving around tiny tables towards the center of the club - the dance floor - she lands eyes on the table at the very border of the seating area. The suit is quintessentially Villanelle, and so is the posture that is somehow both poised and bored. Eve can’t admire her full back, partly due to the chair, and partly due to...her hair. 

Although hating to admit it, Eve has kept an inner note, like a box of old film rolls, of all the times she and Villanelle have been together. Always holding them close to her, always inspecting them, weighing them, Eve notices that not one of them contains a memory of Villanelle’s hair down. If she could have this experience, if she could access the memory countless times after the fact, she thinks she’d never be able to say  _ no _ again. It’s such a small detail - quivers and dies next to the larger ones - but Eve feels its significance. 

Her steps slow, upon her approach to the table. There is a quickness in her mind, and specifically in her heart, but her body asks for stillness. She feels her breathing settle, her lungs calm into an easy rise-and-fall, and she lets her eyes linger over Villanelle’s side profile before sighing, “Hi.”

Villanelle looks up. She looks gentle, small, and there is an air of cautious happiness about her. 

“Hi.” A light flush rises upon her cheeks. Her head nods almost imperceptibly, and her gaze feels so serene, as it passes over Eve. It’s altogether  _ light _ , the moment. 

“Sit, Eve. Please.” Her voice is still so gentle, Eve wonders if this is just how she is now. Maybe, somehow, Villanelle has gone through the same emotional restoration as Eve: the distilled panic, the sharp edges of passion shaved down into something soft and palpable, and even welcoming. A new tone, that seems to whisper:  _ the war is over, you don’t have to surrender, but you can breathe now, you can be.  _

Eve sits, places her jacket over the back of the chair. Villanelle doesn’t take her eyes off her. Their gazes meet, briefly, and they both turn away, because it’s so charged, but in a different, new manner. It’s the dance floor that now holds their attention. 

It hits Eve quickly, the fact that Villanelle is not leading the conversation - not speaking at all, actually. She is lingering in her periphery vision; smooth blonde tresses fill Eve’s head, undoubtedly bringing a pink blush to her face. It will have to be her.

“Konstantin’s in a hospital. I hear he’s recovering,” she offers. Villanelle nods slowly, adopts a weary expression, almost as if tears were to follow, but she blinks it away quickly. Instead, she turns herself towards Eve, fully.

“Thank you, Eve. I am glad you were there.” 

“Not glad enough for you to stick around, I gather.” As soon as it leaves her mouth, though, she wants to erase it. It’s their old dynamic: dry, loosely antagonistic humor, but it feels unnatural now, even wrong. It’s confirmed when she meets Villanelle’s eyes, and there’s actual  _ hurt _ there.

“Eve, I’m sorry.” 

It’s awful, and a little surprising, how terrible an apology could make Eve feel. Once, she thought this was exactly what she needed from Villanelle: closure, acknowledgment, the righting of a wrong, but now, it just feels grievous. It isn’t right, for them. Apologies exist between people who stay obedient to a certain moral framework, who know what is right and what is wrong, aware of the laws and customs. 

There is no right or wrong. There’s hurting Villanelle, or not hurting Villanelle. Eve wants nothing more to do with “morality” if it is just a system that calls Villanelle a monster. Aren’t we all monsters? If it’s more apparent in one person than in another, maybe that person simply lost the strength to hide it. Maybe they’ve been too battered and bruised to subscribe to “normality.” 

Maybe this is the conclusion Eve always clung to, through all her years of studying criminal psychology, through all the cases she became too personally invested in. No, it isn’t a messiah complex. It’s the acknowledgment that everyone wears a mask, and when it gets too heavy, someone should be there to help them take it off. 

Villanelle cries in front of her, now, and Eve agrees to a pact, deep within herself. It will never be a work of her hands, this woman’s pain, ever again. She stands.

“Don’t apologize. Please dance with me.” 

-

It’s barely a dance - it’s closeness. From the second Eve decides to lead, and their hands meet, they push into each other, magnetized. Villanelle shivers at the feel of Eve’s arms wrapped tightly around her back - Eve feels the shudder, and kisses her. No preface, no hesitation - she feels she has the right, and she feels the dire need of it. Villanelle rests her forehead against her own after, and they sway like that, for a stretch of time. 

Eve eventually rests her head in the crook of Villanelle’s neck, breathing her in. The hand that has been in her curls since they began to dance is now stroking through them, gently. It’s dizzying, the warmth of a woman’s body. Eve’s entire being aches. Her head feels like a pond bathed in sunlight; easy waters. 

“We can’t let this end,” she murmurs into pale skin. She feels Villanelle’s pulse quicken. 

“Don’t ruin yourself for me,” Villanelle whispers, utter sadness ringing through each syllable. 

Eve lifts her head at this, searches for eyes. She locks in on the crestfallen pupils. 

“I think I ruined myself before you, after you, but never  _ with _ you.”

Villanelle’s breath hitches, tears falling, and Eve’s thumb brushes them away.

She continues, “You think it’s good for you, to be with me?”

Eve prioritizes their eye contact, even when Villanelle tries to look elsewhere. She calmly says, “It’s not good for me, to be away from you.” Her hands continue soothing Villanelle’s cheeks, reinviting her towards composure. 

“It isn’t good for me either,” she pauses. “I think I used to like it...the chase-”

“Me too,” Eve cuts in, “but-”

“But now, I just want you here.” Villanelle finishes. Eve nods, eyes full of unwavering agreement, reverence, and conclusive affection. 

They continue to sway, relishing this new and rare aura. Gradually, the dance floor empties, with only two or three other couples revolving the circle. It must be late, past midnight. A man walks out from a back office and announces to the remaining patrons that they will be closing in ten minutes. With great reluctance, Eve and Villanelle part while keeping their hands interlocked. They walk towards their long abandoned table. Villanelle helps Eve put her coat on. 

The chill of night air creeps in through the entrance, and their eyes lock once more. It feels very easy now. 

“Would you-”

“Let me-”

They speak over each other, wild giggles following. Villanelle throws her hands up in surrender, granting Eve the lead once more.

“Let me come home with you?”

“Mmm, I like you in charge.”

Eve playfully punches her, and they walk outside and along the streets, arm-in-arm.

-

For hours, they caress each other. Villanelle is in pain, Eve can feel it all over, without having to ask. She rubs her down, presses kisses to her cheeks, her neck - everywhere aching for touch. This fresh cut on her arm - Eve doesn’t ask, she won’t ask anything, not tonight - she just dips down and presses gentle kisses along its expanse. Villanelle’s sighs turn into sweet whimpers, their hands interlock, and tears fall. 

Time falls in on itself, and they realize something  _ is _ ending, and they find themselves chasing it away. The fiery engine that once pushed them together is no longer needed - no room left for more fabricated endings. 

Their soft bodies choosing each other, this is where the conclusion begins. 

Sunlight creeps in through open windows, and Eve is in love with the hands in her hair. Villanelle lifts herself up on her elbow, lowers her hand and smoothes over Eve’s bare stomach, up past her breasts, and settles on her cheek. 

“Eve,” she breathes out, “did you notice, we slept through the night?”

“How weird,” Eve murmurs. They collapse in on each other, laughter and devotion: the leading influences. It’s so softly feminine - giggling with another woman, and falling into bed with her. 

And it’s gentle, light, and harmonious, the way they hold onto each other.

**Author's Note:**

> Let's ache towards Sunday together. 
> 
> While writing this fic, I listened to "Alan (Rework)" by Perfume Genius, and "The War" by SYML. The fic's title is plucked directly from the first, but both songs, in my opinion, fit Villaneve beautifully. I highly recommend taking a listen!
> 
> The dialogue quote at the very beginning is taken from the Dostoyevsky novel that I legitimately started reading as a way to direct my brain cells towards something other than KE, but one of the main characters is named Dasha, so here we are. Nevertheless, I recommend the novel as well! Russian literature is gorgeous and full of ache. 
> 
> As always, comments are welcomed and beyond appreciated! 
> 
> I'm on tumbr @prepxn


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